So I think that I should read some more freeway
poems because this is Los Angeles we're talking about.
I wonder if I--
I've got to have some someplace.
Oh, and-- all right.
So this book is called World Ball Notebook.
And it's about the 10 year period
that my kids were in soccer.
They grew out of it.
They went to college, moved out of the house, and so forth.
So there's a time jump from the van to this poem here.
And it's "Game 117."
The poems in this book I just called games
because we kept going back to that soccer field
over, and over, and over.
And if you're working full time and you're
engaged in all these different activities
and then the kid needs to go to soccer, you're like, oh, man.
Again.
And then you're out there yelling like, go.
Because they didn't even have soccer when I was a kid.
And you don't even know the rules.
What do you mean offside?
She's faster than everybody.
[LAUGHTER]
And then the kid afterwards is like, dad, stop yelling.
Anyway, whatever.
All right.
So she went to college.
And then her first year out of college--
she went to the California Maritime Academy.
The only Maritime Academy on the West Coast.
The only-- probably the only college on the West Coast
that has 100% employment after graduation for you
students who want a job.
She graduated with a Third Mate's Coast Guard license,
which means that she can pilot ships.
She went up to the Arctic Circle.
And ran tugboats during the summertime
working with these all-male crew of ex-cons and whatever.
She's got herself a big knife.
And in six months-- in her first six months after college
she made more than me after 30 years of teaching.
I resent that.
[LAUGHTER]
Whatever.
She just be like, dad, get on with it.
"So the kid flew in from Hawaii yesterday,
a bit frumpy and grumpy.
A bit sunburned.
Because of lack of sleep and long hours
changing planes in Phoenix.
Waiting in Burbank for her ride.
And then at home, a turnaround.
A phone call from Alaska telling her
that her flight is set for 10:00 AM the next day
to Bethel via Anchorage.
Pretty much all flights go to outlying areas in Alaska
to drop her in Anchorage for the transfer.
So she's looking at another day flight with layovers,
and frumpy, and grumpy.
Fooling around with her $2,000 new toys, the Apple computer,
and the iPod to keep herself entertained.
Many hours in flight, and in airports, and aboard ship.
Having to bunk in shared cabins with middle aged seamen.
And we're up at 6:00 AM.
Out of the house at 6:30.
At 7:00 AM as I arrive at LAX on the West Side,
which is 7:00 to the 105.
Rush hour traffic with freeway on clover
leafs curling like parking lots around us.
She says, I'm flying out of Burbank.
[LAUGHTER]
So she waits til I'm at LAX to tell me, of course,
it's 7:00 AM and the freeways are gridlocked.
Was I cursing.
The Nissan is growling screaming, start, stop.
It's fucking rush hour.
I'm off the 105.
Illegal U-turn, back eastward.
80 miles an hour to the 405 North.
Bumper to bumper, of course.
I drift across the divider at La Cienega
and head East on the surface streets.
La Cienega.
At least it's 35 miles an hour.
Zoom all the way to the 10.
Endless bumper to bumper stop and go traffic.
What the hell was she thinking?
What is this?
This is the second kid to do this to me.
[LAUGHTER]
How?
West on the 10, through West LA.
Reconnect to the 405 North, which is flowing at 50 or 60.
Mulholland pass to the Valley.
Past the 101 and the 170 across San Fernando Valley.
Get off at Victory Boulevard, where the hell am I?
In the Valley somewhere there's a damned airport police car.
I know the airport is around here somewhere.
Victory Boulevard.
Burbank Boulevard.
Where is it?
Miles and miles Southeast on Victory
to the signs for the airport.
Arrive at Burbank Airport loading zone 8:20 AM.
She's pleased to make her flight."